Snack Break
by Eponymous Rose
Summary: Three times Carolina and Wash talked at the kitchen table.
"Sit down before you fall down," she says.

The new guy—Agent Washington—practically exudes resigned caution, like he's expecting her to administer the next barrage of testing right then and there. His fingers tighten on the helmet in his hands, tendons standing out in sharp relief against his skin.

She sighs and nudges the chair across the table from her with her toe, pushing it out in plain invitation. Wash hesitates, then sits with his back ramrod-straight, placing his helmet in his lap. "I, uh," he says, after a moment of silence. "I was looking for the sauna."

"The sauna." Carolina keeps her voice perfectly level. Nice to see York pulling out that old standby. She's pretty sure he's just upset at how long it took _him_ to figure it out, back in the day. "Yes. That. You probably took a left out of the medbay when you should've taken a right."

"I went straight," Wash says.

"You probably passed it, then. It's a big ship, easy to get lost. Want a snack?"

Wash's fingers tighten, relax on his helmet again. "I'm fine."

"Your hands are shaking," Carolina says, pushing away her datapad. "I know how hard they work you when you join."

A muscle in his jaw clenches. "It's fine."

"Seriously, if this is a test, you're about to fail it by passing out." She tips back a little in her chair so she can reach the drawer behind her, pulls out a handful of ration bars, and fans them out like a hand of cards. "Let's see. We've got… fossilized cardboard and fossilized cardboard with cinnamon."

He stares at her, reaches a hand out cautiously, then tears open the package and swallows the contents in about five seconds flat. "Thanks," he says, his voice muffled. She's a little amazed his jaws aren't welded together.

"Sure," Carolina says. "Hey, I hear they're gonna roll out an upgrade to the tech that'll make it possible to eat without taking off our helmets."

She's pretty sure she's gone too far—her rookie-teasing meter has been a little uncalibrated ever since she spent a month unsuccessfully trying to bullshit Maine—but Wash just looks down at his helmet pensively. "Wow. That sounds incredibly useful."

She's grateful for her own helmet, which lets her hide a smile. "Get some rest. The sauna can wait. You're doing fine."

"That's good to hear," Wash says. "Um. You mind if I stay here until my legs start working again?"

"Knock yourself out." Carolina passes another ration bar over, grabs her datapad, and flips through the next day's personnel reports to the sound of determined chewing.

* * *

"Sit down before you fall down," she says.

Their base of operations barely warrants the name: it's a ramshackle train of prefab rooms, one of a series of bases the UNSC has left vacant in the post-war scramble. It's a short pit-stop on their way to recover the Epsilon unit, but the sim troopers seem determined to live in color-coordinated teams as far from each other as humanly possible, so the center section has been given the role of no-man's-land.

It also happens to be a kitchen. The dead of night is about the only time when it can reliably be free of booby-traps, diabolical scheming, and the blue one's uncanny ability to light everything on fire.

Wash is leaning in the doorway to the Blues' section, gripping his own wrist like he's trying to stanch some remembered bleeding. Despite the late hour, he's still wearing his helmet. He's always wearing his helmet. "Are you here," he says, hoarsely, not quite a question. He sounds like he just woke up.

She nudges the chair across from her with her toe, and like a sleepwalker he stumbles over to sit down. "Can't sleep?"

Wash takes a deep breath. Seems to rally. "Could say the same to you. I don't think I've seen you sleep all week."

"That's what stims are for," Carolina says. "We have a mission. There's no room for distractions."

"I, no, I mean. I know." Wash splays gloved fingers against his helmet's faceplate. "I know. You're going to kill him."

"You're having doubts?"

"He gave us—" Wash shakes his head. "The whole project made me feel bigger. Better. More important. Like I was doing something to stop all the terrible things I saw when I was on the ground, on the front lines."

"He lied to us."

"I know," Wash says. "Trust me, I know he lied. I'm not having doubts, Carolina. I just… sometimes I just get so tired."

"Then you should get some rest," Carolina says. "Are you with me, Wash?"

"I'm with you, boss," he says, without hesitation, like he's running on automatic. "But you gotta get some rest, too."

"Okay," Carolina says. "Okay, I'll get some rest. In a minute."

Neither of them moves, watching the dawn pierce through a thick canopy of stars.

* * *

He's already sitting at the kitchen table in the New Republic's makeshift headquarters when she finally gathers the strength to step through the door. There's an echo in her mind, a blankness that carries weight. A goodbye message, passed to her by a taciturn Tucker, still whispering on the edge of memory.

He's not wearing a helmet, not wearing any kind of armor, small and unfamiliar in fatigues, one arm in a sling—the injury's a souvenir of a Mantis-class assault droid that Caboose has been quick to assure everyone is in no way related to Freckles. He presses his lips together at the sight of her, hesitates, then nudges the chair out across from him. Smiles.

"Hey," he says. "Sit down before you fall down."


End file.
